


Better to Turn the Other Cheek

by beachkid (binz), binz



Category: Dresden Files - Butcher
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Light Bondage, Non-Negotiated Kink, Painplay, Spanking, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-06
Updated: 2009-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/beachkid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing anyone needs is another wangsty vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better to Turn the Other Cheek

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kink_bingo 2009, square: spanking/paddling. Other kinks present include: light bondage, light D/s, and light painplay.

It's easy to organise; not remarkably so, no. That would be entirely too suspect, and if there's one thing she knows, it's when things are suspicious. But she is his official caregiver as well as Lara's personal assistant, and it affords her control of his schedule and a familiarity with the workings of the Chateau, and she manipulates both with professional ease.

Thomas arrives for his session ten minutes late, a return of the casual indolence he had so courted in the years before Harry, but the swagger of his hips is not quite the playboy ooze he used to exude. There is too little pride and a little too much violence for it to be as charmingly confident and harmless as that.

He stops short when he sees her, his face going blank and tight. "Justine --" he says, and she meets his gaze impassively, glancing down at the clipboard in her hands as if she needs to check.

"You're late, Mister Raith." She tips the clipboard toward the massage bed, covered in clean, soft white sheets. "If you would? We do want to get the most out of your time."

He stares at her, eyes narrowing, and, almost imperceptibly, lightening. She makes a point of placing the clipboard on the counter, casually making room amongst the oils, closed boxes, stones, brushes, and various cloths, and pulls an armload of towels from the under-counter heater.

The over-hot burn of the air inside the heater is enough to help her focus, and she turns back with a lofted eyebrow. "Mister Raith?"

Thomas holds her gaze for a moment longer, silvered eyes darkening back to their normal grey with what is a visible effort, and then he twists his lips in a careless smirk and lifts his own eyebrows in a challenge. He unbelts the robe tied shut around his waist, and lets it drop.

She can feel her body tense, reacting to his presence and the sight, the familiar arousal flaring, and as he passes, and she sees his nipples tighten and his cock start to harden. His skin takes on a pearly shine as both he and his demon respond to her in turn.

"Face down," she says, voice cool and professional and detached. She's had a lot of practice with the tone, and hell if she's going to let the sight of him naked shake her. "Any particular areas to focus on tonight, Mister Raith?"

She lays the warmed towels over his joints, flicking a glace at the security cameras, and then turns to pull the privacy barrier shut. It's black, unlike most of the design concept in the Chateau, and sinks full to the floor and rises almost up to the ceiling. She's chosen a bed that isn't visible from an aerial angle, the camera doesn't pick up sound, and the only other staff in the Chateau are the kitchen staff and the entrance security.

No one else of Blood will be home for at least two hours.

She's organised things well. It's her job, after all.

"Yes," Thomas snaps as soon as the privacy screen shuts. "The area of _what are you doing_?"

"Ah," she says, rummaging under the end of the bed. "I see. Tonight we'll be focusing on your attitude."

He goes still, and she takes advantage of his shock to snap the restraints shut over his ankles and then the backs of his knees. She makes it around the bed, gets the restraint over his right wrist, and catches his left in her hand when the surprise wears off and his reflexes kick in.

She meets his eyes, and waits.

If he wanted to, he could still throw her across the room without a thought, tear himself free, and leave.

Or kill her.

She waits.

She sees when he realises that she's wearing white leather gloves that match her bodysuit, watches his gaze take in her tightly wound hair, held up and severe with two chopsticks, and the bodysuit itself that covers every inch of her below her chin.

His arm goes slack, and he pulls it away, watching her as she bends to release the last restraint from its place under the bed and close it shut around his wrist.

"Now," she says. "Would you prefer lavender, citrus, sandalwood, pear, or spearmint?"

   
   


She massages him until he glows, skin soft and slick and reflecting the dim lights of the salon room. She works his back, his limbs, his feet, and wiping the oil carefully from her gloves, rubs her fingers lightly against his scalp. He groans now and then, arches and the muscles under her hands flex and release, and he sags into the bed and the restraints.

She waits until he's slack, a distant, dozy smile tugging up the corners of his mouth and taking years off his face, and his fingers curl loosely in contentment. Then she pulls away, leaving his hair mussed and sticking this way and that, and slides the chopsticks out from her own, letting it fall free.

She takes a brush from the counter, and counts five strokes on each side, turning the brush at the bottom to flip up and loosely curl her hair like she remembers her mother doing, when she was small enough to fit under her parents' bed and watch them in the morning. She checks to make sure some strands, so long and white, have tangled in the bristles, have caught and wrapped around the flat side; they are fine enough that the movements knotted them, and she would need to reach in and pull them out.

She brings the flat of the brush down on Thomas's ass.

The smack is almost as loud as Thomas's gasped "Justine!" and she places one hand on the faint pink mark - already fading, although the few darker crisscrossing lines where the strands of her hair touched his skin last longer - partly to soothe, and partly to brace herself as she brings the brush down again on the other cheek.

"Thomas," she says. "We need to have a talk about your recent behavior."

"Justine! What --"

She smacks again, harder, and catches the inside of one slightly spread thigh.

He roars, an inhuman sound, and she smacks the spot again, pressing down with the brush and holding it there for two of her heartbeats.

She's surprised it isn't beating faster.

"Enough," she says. She knows she's taking a risk with this. Knows he could still bring her down, tear free and tear her apart if he wanted to. Knows that bringing things up in him without allowing him to feed could be dangerous for everyone. Knows that his demon isn't the biggest part of him, and that he needs to be reminded of that.

She brings the brush down again, hard enough that the impact cracks, sharp and sudden, and follows it up with a firm smack of her hand, landing on the inside of his other thigh. He's beginning to go pink, and she starts up a steady rhythm, smacking in time to her heart, to the clock, to the rise and fall of his hips.

"I want you to think," she says, carefully controlling her breathing in and out like it's a hot yoga session, her hair slowly curling with the sweat and the heat. It sticks to the back of her neck. She keeps her rhythm simple and the impacts firm and smart. "Think about the things you've done -- not to those girls. Think about what you've used their deaths as an excuse to do. Are you proud of yourself, Thomas? Does it give you something to be proud of? To ignore everyone who tries to help you? Does it make you feel good?"

She smacks the brush down a little harder, then down again and again in a sharper, faster rhythm. "To know you are the worst thing there is? To shut out anyone who might tell you you're not," _smack_ "so," _smack_ "special?" _smack_. "That you are behaving like a child and," she brings the brush down as hard as she can; her arm is burning, and she knows she will hurt more than he does, after this. "For the first time that I've known you, you're taking the easy way out. Shameful."

She marvels a little at the flush that's appearing on his skin, the outline of the brush, forming and fading away more slowly now, and the many red lines from her hair crossing and spreading like jellyfish stings. "Don't cheapen their deaths by making it about you."

She's stronger than she looks, but she has nothing on the preternatural strength of a vampire. So she stops, holds the brush loosely in her fingers, then turns and puts it back on the counter.

Thomas is panting more than she is, eyes glazed but grey, and his hips flex, pressing down against the bed and pushing back up. He makes a soft, rough, unfinished sound somewhere in his throat, and she rubs at his red skin, pressing deep at the flexing muscle.

"Can you feel that, Thomas?" She asks, keeping her voice soft and low. She bends so she's next to his ear, her hair hanging over her shoulder and so close to his skin. "What does it feel like?"

She doesn't wait for an answer, but carefully opens a plain wooden box sitting on the counter next to the brush, pulling out a simple pair of white opera gloves. These are a chance; she's as certain about them as she can be, but has no real way of testing them. She picked them up at an estate auction three years ago, following the death of a couple who had married in the '30s and who had, judging by the pictures of them, been in as true a love as she had ever seen.

She slides the silk gloves on over her leather ones, and flexes her fingers. She bends, blows gently at his hair so it tunnels, and runs her fingers through it to smooth it out again. He hisses.

She brings her hand down on his ass. Once. Twice. Three times. And holds it just above his skin, watching the bright red handprints rise like a sunburn.

Yes.

"Does that feel good, Thomas?" she asks. "Is it pleasure?" She runs one finger carefully around the clearest handprint, tracing the outline of her fingers with the lightest touch. "Do you deserve to feel this good?"

She smacks fast and sharp, hitting the back of his thighs and then the outside of his ass cheeks, leaving red marks and making him squirm away and press back, tangling her name with half-formed sounds.

She smacks faster still, hitting the same spots over and over until he's calling out, grunting and losing shapeless sound with each impact. She smacks until she has to stop, her chest rising and falling as she pants, her shoulder and arm burning, and her palm numb even through the two layers. She wipes the sweat from her forehead, and lifts her hair from her neck. A twist and a tug, and she has her chopsticks holding it up and away from her skin again. Her neck is soaked.

Thomas gasps and grunts. His face is as red as his ass, and there are tears in his eyes. His breath catches, and he coughs, nose wet. She pulls the opera gloves from her hands carefully, lays them out on top of the box, and puts a leather-gloved hand back on his ass.

He grunts, hips jerking forward, and she bends to press her face to his hair. "Do you feel good, Thomas?" She whispers as low as she can, lips stopping just short of brushing his skin. "Did you know you still could? Did that make you feel so good?"

Thomas groans again, and spreads his legs as wide as the restraints will allow when she slides her hand between them. She presses up, firm and sure, and keeps one hand lightly tapping against his ass, enough to make the burns sting before they start to heal, and more than enough to make his breath catch. Her other hand works his perineum, her touch exact and familiar, until he moans, jerks against the massage bed in a fast, arrhythmic convulsion, and goes slack with a breathy grunt.

She undoes the restraints while he lays there, one cheek flat against the bed, panting and his eyes wild. He slides off the bed when she's done, landing on his knees, and she lets him clasp his arms around her waist in a familiar gesture, running one gloved hand through his hair. He rests his face against her belly, and she feels strong and tall and powerful.

"Shh," she tells him. His face is wet, and his eyes are wide. "Shh. It's not so bad, is it?" She holds him there until her phone buzzes gently in an inside pocket, and she knows it's time to clean up and put them both away before Lara arrives home.


End file.
